


Even Death Has a Heart

by villanais



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Discussions of Death & Mortality, F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villanais/pseuds/villanais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every second I'm not dead, is another second I'm dying anyway..."</p>
<p>"That's a really pessimistic way to look at life," she says, a little breathless.</p>
<p>He considers that for a moment. "Because it's true."</p>
<p>------</p>
<p>Written for a prompt on the Daredevil kinkmeme: One of the reasons Matt's so reserved around people is that he can smell death. The slow decay in their organs and cells. It can be overwhelming, and it's easier to keep most people at length.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Death Has a Heart

She has a heart murmur: a little hiccup in the otherwise staccato drum of her heartbeat—at least that’s how he describes it. She’s known about it for years. It’s nothing that’s been deemed to shorten her lifespan in any way, and she’s told him so. Still—she can’t tell if he finds it part endearing, or worrisome.                                                

He’s noticeably quiet tonight while she tends to some re-disturbed scar tissue beneath his left shoulder blade. It’s not that he’s particularly talkative the majority of the nights they spend together. Most of the time he seems contented with listening to Claire talk idly about the hospital or whatever other errands had occupied her day—making incidental sounds of interest or agreement here and there while he absentmindedly strokes the inside of her wrist, or toys with a piece of her hair.

It’s sedative—the routine they’ve developed. And it scares her. The comfort they seem to find in the habitual sensation of needle through skin, cutting of thread, and smell of antiseptic. She supposes her career has ingrained it within her, that it’s beneficial to the work she does. Maybe he gets it from all the nights he spent patching up his dad—a child forced into the role of caretaker. She thinks that it explains some of his occupational choices too. 

“You okay?” she asks, grabbing his hand to hold the gauze in place while she sifts through her bag for more med tape. 

His expression stays distant and he remains silent. It’s not the first time he’s spaced out on her—exhausted from spending too many hours throwing punches at the shadows of Hell’s Kitchen, or too engrossed in the reverberations of the city to catch her words. She lets out a resigned sigh, rolls the gloves off her hands, and tosses them into the waste bin. 

He flinches slightly when she, out of habit, turns his chin to face her.

“Matt,” she prompts gently. The warmth of his breath skims softly across the tops of her knuckles as she traces the outline of his jaw with the pad of her thumb. 

“Sorry,” he says with a sleepy smile, leaning into her touch. “I was distracted.”

_God_ , he looks exhausted. She had fully intended on enforcing the boundaries she had set with him prior to her 3 week stay at her sisters’. She wanted to be disappointed in her lack of resolve…but his new suit _was_ vastly better at protecting him, and there was no blood in her mouth or on his hands recently, so she let those boundaries blur with every soft kiss to his temple, every reverent whisper of thanks that left his lips, the fleeting touches they both pretended not to notice…

Less than lovers, more than friends—they were caught in an impasse.

She pulls the stool between her legs so she can sit down while maintaining their close distance.

“What’s it this time? Are the rats scratching in the walls two blocks away—or is Mrs. Ferrantino cooking with that gross wine again?”

“Neither,” he says with a breathy laugh, and he reaches up to slide his thumb across the pulse point of her wrist, the corners of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly when he finds it. “It’s just—your hiccup is being extra loud tonight, is all…”

It’s a lie, but a cute one. She almost lets it slide.

“I’ll try to keep it down,” she says wryly. “Maybe then you’ll be able to focus enough to come up with a more convincing evasive answer.”

She gets up to gather her things but is anchored by his hand still lightly holding her wrist.

“Claire…” he starts. She shifts his grip so his hand is in hers, and folds his fingers down into loose fist, bending her neck to examine his knuckles. The new gloves have reduced the amount of nicks and cuts, but they’re still marred by a watercolor of bruises. He’s lucky he has the excuse of being a boxer.  

“It’s fine,” she says with sigh. “I said no extra stuff. That applies to my side of things too.”

“It’s not that.” He pulls her down lightly into the chair again and she sits down willingly. He’s visibly tense, which makes her nervous. She’s certain that he’s aware of it too, as the crease between his brows becomes more prominent.

“Ever since Fisk’s contingent was disassembled, there have been smaller parties here and there who have profited from his absence…some of them have used the opportunity to expand.”

“Cut one head off, two more take its place,” she remarks dryly. He shrugs his shoulders as what she interprets to be a symbol of concession.

“There were two drug rings that were starting to become hostile towards one another. Their markets were beginning to overlap as a result of their growth, and one of them didn’t like the competition. I figured I would wait it out until they weaken one another before making a move on either of them.”

“That sounds smart,” she says tentatively, sensing that it didn’t really matter.

He laughs hollowly. “Yeah, I thought so too,” he says tightly, “I must have waited too long though…because when I went to one of their bases tonight, they were all dead.”

She can feel the blood run cold in her neck then, and she tightens her grip on his hand, focusing on the warmth radiating from his skin. She’s not exactly sure why this upsets him so much, but her empathetic nature still causes her stomach to turn. Killing wasn’t his style—isn’t his style (yet). But she can’t picture Matt shedding any tears over a couple dead mob members.

“I could smell cigar smoke, and there was…a table in the center of the room. I think they were playing cards—or something.”

He swallows thickly before continuing. She knows that eye contact is pointless between them, but she still feels like he’s avoiding her gaze as he talks, his chin low and eyes cast downwards towards the small space between their knees.

“There was a woman there that was still breathing—a girlfriend I think. Not conscious fortunately. I thought about using the burner to call for help…but I could _sense_ the amount blood, and I knew that I was already too late.”

He pauses, taking a shaky breath.

“Standing there while she was dying, for someone _like me_ , was a lot.”

Claire feels a little breathless herself as she looks at him with both apprehension and pity. “You listened to her die?” she asks, slightly bewildered. That catholic guilt must run deeper than she thought.

“And smelled, and tasted…” he clarifies, undeniably horrified.

“Oh my god,” she says dumbly, “I can’t—I can’t imagine…feeling that, the way you feel things…”

“Yeah,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of nose, “unfavorable side effect of radioactive super-senses I guess.” It’s a weak deflection, even for him.

“Steer clear of Hospice if you ever visit me at work,” she jokes lamely. “Not that normal person would want to go there either, but…”

He smiles weakly, grabbing onto the chair legs to pull her closer. “That one of the reasons I avoid hospitals actually,” he says, “that and the needles.” Their knees knock a little and she intertwines their legs a bit to accommodate. _Boundaries_ , she hears a weak voice in her head remind her.

“It’s not just—the _actual_ dying part,” he starts hesitantly. “Death, technically, begins at birth. The slow decay of organs and cells, the gradual breakdown of tissues, depleting cartilage, lost bone density—I feel it in everyone all the time, from infants to the elderly…”

“Jesus,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “And I thought work made my life morbid…”

The information is unsettling, to say the least. But it does give her a better insight in regards to some of his actions, why he was the way he was, and why he did what he did…

It’s her turn to look away now as she prepares to ask her next question. It’s one that she’s wanted to ask for a while now, but was too scared of what he might say to actually go through with. She bites her lip, wondering again how she got herself involved in something so complicated.

“Is that why you don’t care about dying…why you don’t care about the danger you put yourself in? The presence of death is so prevalent in your life that it’s become mundane to you?”

She tries to keep her tone neutral, but the feeling in her voice is transparent. She’s scared by his lack of interest in self-preservation, and frustrated by his apathy. She risks looking back so she can judge his expression. He looks sympathetic, but not sorry.

"Every second I'm not dead, is another second I'm dying anyway…"

"That's a really pessimistic way to look at life," she says, a little breathless.

He considers that for a moment. "Because it's true."   

She thinks about her pulse that he was just listening to, and how she could feel his own drumming against the bones in her wrist, almost forgotten beneath the electricity that forever lingers between his fingertips and her skin. She cups his face firmly with both hands and gently rests her forehead against his. “Listen to me,” she says sternly. His eyelashes cast long shadows across the tops of his cheeks and his eyebrows pull up with an emotion she can’t place.

“You are not a dying man, Matt Murdock.”

Her throat tightens with a level of emotion she didn’t know she felt for him, and she has to pause to take a breath. The space between their lips is so minuscule; it barely has a right to be there in the first place.

“I can _feel_ the intake of breath you take every time I run my fingers over old stitches to check the wear and tear you inflict on them every damn night. I know that your heartbeat quickens when I lean into your personal space like this, and I notice the goosebumps that rise across the tops of your arms when my breath ghosts against your skin as I tell you about my day.”

He swallows thickly, and he looks like he’s on the verge of either kissing her or bolting for the door. He ends up reaching for the hand against the left side of his jaw, taking it firmly between both his palms before placing it gently just to the right of his heart, almost identical to the way she did the first time at his apartment. He dips his chin slightly and closes his eyes, waiting for her to continue.  

“Which means…also, that you notice the way my heart picks up when I’m around you. You know I hesitate when I go to gather my things to leave, and that I kiss you on the forehead, not out of habit, but because I know that's the nearest I can get to being close to you. And that I get sick to my stomach every time you say you’re about to go out.”

Her words have dropped to a whisper. His eyes are open now and centered on the corner of her lips. She gives a small smile, amused by his transfixed expression.

“You are…a _living_ , _breathing_ thing. And so am I. So, please, just...take a moment to be here with me.”

Her voice breaks on the last words and he chases the sound with his lips. It’s only the second time he’s kissed her but the physicality of it is still pleasant in its familiarity. She’s amazed by how a man so unrestrained with his fists can be so tentative and measured with a kiss. His movements both languid and deliberate in a way that is both tender and full of hunger. Her pulse thrums in her ears and she wonders how this all sounds to him. How well does the stutter of her heart and every hitch of breath blend in with the muffled rhythm of light rain and the white noise of the city? Can he even hear her heart over his own? His lips are so meticulous against hers; she can't believe that he could be aware of anything besides her.

Eventually, he pulls away, one hand still in her hair, the other tracing lines down her collar bone to the hollow of her throat.

“The only time I really feel alive is when I’m in the suit,” he says softly. “I’m working on that. Being with you though…is more than close enough.”

She smiles against his lips, noting the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and kisses him again.


End file.
